


By Halves

by vorpal_platypus



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Character Death Fix, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorpal_platypus/pseuds/vorpal_platypus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco survives Trost, but has to find his way again with a missing arm and a missing eye. Slowly, but surely, he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossposted from [my writing blog](http://theplatypusquacks.tumblr.com/post/55024112198/by-halves-1-4).

The last thing Marco remembers is a yawning mouth, stinking of rotten blood and gaping like an abyss before him. He wakes screaming, but he can’t tell if he’s screaming in his dream or in his memory. He doesn’t know which. All he knows is that he’s covered in cold sweat and swathed tight somewhere warm and soft.

Opening his eyes, he sees he’s in the infirmary. As he sits up, he moves to brace himself against the bed with his right hand, only to find it isn’t there. His right arm isn’t there. In shock, he clings to the one familiar thing he sees.

"Jean?"

The other boy jerks awake, long limbs flailing, and he nearly falls out of his chair. Marco wonders how long he’s been asleep.

"Are you okay?" His voice sounds scratchy. Probably a while then. A dust mote floats into eye, so he winks it shut out of habit but is shocked to find the world dark. He brings his hand to his right eye. Bandages.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine," Jean says, finally pulling himself together. “I, um, what about you? Well, er, obviously you’re not fine but um, like you know what I meant."

Marco’s right arm is gone. His left eye is gone? Injured? Like this, armless and with his depth perception wrecked, he can’t use the 3D maneuver gear. He can’t join the military police. At least, he thinks bitterly, he’ll get an honorable discharge and receive a reasonable pension. It’ll help his family, he supposes.

"Oh, shit, you probably want water, right? You’ve been out for so long." Jean clumsily reaches for the pitcher and cup on the nightstand, but knocks the cup to the ground. Luckily, it’s made of metal and doesn’t break.

"Jean, you-"

"I’m just," Jean says. He stops, body shaking as he tries to hold back a sob. “I’m just really happy okay. I know it’s shitty of me and it’s bullshit because you always wanted to go into the military police and now you can’t but I’m still so fucking happy, okay. I’m just happy you’re still here."

Marco is uncomfortable with the ensuing silence. He stares at Jean; Jean, with his two eyes and his two hands as he pours water from a pitcher into a cup. Jean, as he holds out the cup in front of Marco, but doesn’t have the strength to look him in the eye. Instead, he looks away, other hand (and wouldn’t Marco like to have his back) clasped lightly on the back of his neck like he’s hanging it in shame.

There’s something ugly and awful curling in the pit of Marco’s stomach, and the sight of just water is enough to make him nauseous, like he’s scared of what will happen if he opens his mouth. And Jean, with his working body and intact dreams, doesn’t deserve that. Marco can’t do that to Jean, who is his best friend, who tries so hard. Jean doesn’t deserve that, so Marco takes it into his own hands.

“Jean, I think.” He licks his lips (dried and cracked) because he’s sure this is the right thing to do, but it’s still hard. “I think I need to be alone.”

“Marco?” The word comes out feeble and wavering, and for a moment Marco almost wavers too.

“I really need for you to not be here right now. It’s not; it’s not your fault. I can’t see you right now. Just not right now.”

At that, all the tension in Jean snaps and his whole body slumps. His face contorts into confusion and hurt and his mouth gapes like he wants something to say but can’t find the words.

“Please Jean,” Marco begs. “I need to be alone.”

“O-okay. I’ll be back tomorrow? After my clean up shift.”

Has Jean been spending his breaks here? His nights? How long has he been out?

“Yeah,” he says, a little awkwardly. “I’ll still be here.” He laughs a little. “I don’t think I’m leaving anytime soon, so.”

Jean laughs a little too, like somehow it’s almost normal and they’re just cadets again, and doesn’t Marco wish for that too? “Yeah, you’re, that’s right.” He stiffens, like he always does when he shoves his foot into his mouth, but only when he does it around Marco.

“I’ll just head out now. Before I uh. Before my commander starts wondering where I am.”

Jean shuffles down the aisle and out the door, and Marco can’t bring himself to say a good luck or a good-bye. With Jean gone, Marco feels like he can breath again, and he’s met with the acrid odor of disinfectant. He coughs, but his stomach churns and he feels like he’s going to vomit, but there’s nothing to vomit. He hasn’t eaten in days, so bile rises in his throat instead, burning and bitter. He chokes on it, forces it back down as he forces his breathing into something steady, or at least he tries.

He tries, but doesn’t do a good job of it, ends up wheezing like he’s sobbing but he actually is crying. It’s so stupid, so stupid because he’s only crying out of one eye-and wow that feels really weird-but also because he’s alive. He survived the titans when a lot of his friends didn’t, and shouldn’t he be thankful he’ll at least see his family again (unlike Daz, poor Daz) when they won’t?

But then there’s Jean, who lived through everything too and came out just fine, and why couldn’t that be him? Why couldn’t that-

He thinks it’s for the best Jean doesn’t come back the next day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossposted from [my writing blog](http://theplatypusquacks.tumblr.com/post/56343227166/by-halves-2-4).

They unwrap the bandages around his eye the day he is discharged. He knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, but the sight of it stuns him anyways.

“Some debris was lodged in the eye,” the nurse explains. “Thankfully it wasn’t large, and your fever broke quickly.” She pulls out an eye patch and hands it to him, holding up a mirror. “Do you need me to help you put it on?”

The surrounding skin is pinkish and tender from being bandaged so long, discolored with pale patches and lines of scar tissue. His left eye somehow manages manages to look both milky and bloodshot; the iris turned cloudy brown. He shuts his other eye. Nothing. It’s hard to disbelieve something when it stares back at you through your reflection.

The nurse clears her throat.

“Oh! I, um, sorry.” Marco takes the patch from her and stares. He presses his eye against it and tries to loop the elastic around the back of his head. The patch slips and snaps against his knuckles. “Um.”

“It’s alright.” She smiles, tired but understanding. “It’s difficult, but you’re very lucky.” She tugs it into place and turns around to gather some paperwork. “Here are your discharge papers and your first pension payment. If you run into any problems, please come back before it worsens.”

“Right,” Marco says, but he doesn’t smile back.

*

As Marco walks down the street of his neighborhood, bag of belongings slung carelessly over his shoulder, he finds it odd to see how little has changed. The Schmidts’ fence is still broken (Marco swears it was an accident, honest), Auntie Marge still can’t get her roses to grow (the bushes are a tangled, shriveled mess outside her window). Nothing has changed, except that it all looks a little more tired.

He pauses outside his home, hand raised and unsure if he should knock.

“Momma! Momma, look!”

“Hush, honey, it’s rude to stare.”

Marco’s hand drops. In the end, he doesn’t have to because the door swings open to reveal his mother’s face. She hasn’t changed much either; the fine lines of her face have grown a bit deeper, but that’s about it. Her eyes widen when she sees the remaining stump of his right arm.

“I’m back,” he says.

A little stunned, she jerks her eyes away to look into his before pulling him in for a tight hug.

“Oh, darling, what ever happened to you?”

Marco’s surprised to see how much he has to lean forward for his mother to wrap her arms around his neck. When he hugs her back, she feels smaller, more fragile than he remembers; the feeling is familiar and strange at the same time.

“I’ve missed you too mom,” he says, and hopes it doesn’t sound too wrong.

“You’ve grown so much,” she murmurs, flattening a wrinkle in his shirt with her palm. “Come on in; your father and older brother aren’t home from work yet, but I’ll get Francesco to help you with your bag.”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t have much.” He tugs at the carrying strap. “I can manage.”

“You’re tired from traveling all day, and you left the hospital just this morning. You’re in no condition to be lugging heavy things up stairs,” she huffs. “Francesco! Marco’s home! Come down and help your brother with his things! Maria, you too!”

Tugging him inside, she says almost conspiratorially to him, “I’ve got a surprise for you for dinner tonight. I managed to get a fresh cut of beef today! I told Mister Sherman that you were coming home today after fighting bravely at Trost, and he gave me a discount as thanks.” She moves to clasp him by the shoulder and squeeze but stops short.

Marco kicks the door shut. “That’s really great. Meat’s expensive these days.”

She frowns. “I’ve told you not to kick the doors. It’s bad for the hinges and the wood. Remember to take off your shoes before stepping inside. I’m going to go check on the pot roast.”

“Of course,” he says, gently setting his bag on the ground and stooping over to take off his shoes. Without an arm to brace against the wall, Marco loses his balance and falls face forward. He flings his arm out and hits the ground with his forearm and thankfully doesn’t hit his head.

“Marco, are you okay?” Maria clambers down the stairs, feet thudding against the wooden steps, and falls to her knees beside him. “What on earth happened?” She sees his empty sleeve and gasps.

“I just lost my balance. That hurt a lot more than I thought it would, ow.” He laughs to dispel the tension and tries to wave her away, but he has no arm to wave. When the pain fades, he pulls himself upright and wrings out his hand. He’s had more painful accidents during training, and like that, Marco is back somewhere where the world isn’t off-balance and he isn’t clumsy in more ways than he can describe.

“What the hell was that noise?” That’s Francesco’s voice, deeper than he remembers, but Francesco was nine when he left home and has to be twelve now. “Marco, you’re home?” His voice cracks at home, and he makes a frustrated noise.

“Francesco, what have I told you about-” His mother rushes to his side. “Marco, are you alright? Did you fall? Do you need any help?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he says again. “It’s all a little new, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Marco says, pointedly mild. “Maria and Francesco can both help me, and I haven’t seen them in a while, so I think we could use the time to catch up.”

“If you think that’s best,” she replies, unconvinced, but she lets it go and takes herself with it, leaving Marco with his two younger siblings.

Francesco finds his way to Marco’s side and crouches down on his knees next to Maria. “Oh man, you got an eyepatch now. It looks so cool.” He reaches out to touch it. “What happened?”

“Ugh, you’re so annoying,” Maria says, smacking him on the back of his head. “Save your questions for dinner when Dad and Aldo are home, stupid. Help me carry Marco’s things upstairs so he can rest.”

“Why’d you hit me?” Francesco whines, but he grabs the other end of Marco’s bag and starts heading towards the stairs.

“Because your head’s too thick,” Maria sniffs. When she realizes Marco isn’t following then, she glances over her shoulder. “Aren’t you coming, Marco? We kept everything the same."

“Yeah, I’ll be,” Marco grunts as he pulls off his boot. “I’ll be right there.”

He’s pleasantly surprised by how much bigger his room is than he remembers. After living in barracks for three years though, he supposes he shouldn’t be. He feels tired all of a sudden, and he thinks a nap before supper would be a good idea. Face to face with the ladder to his bunk though, he’s no longer so sure. As the oldest, Aldo got the only single bed, and as the youngest, Francesco got the bottom bunk.

Gripping the railing, he places his right foot on the first rung, his left foot on the second. He manages to get his right foot onto the third, but he needs to let go and grab the railing somewhere higher except he can’t let go. He feels a punch to the gut, and he stumbles back down the ladder to sink to the floorboards. He doesn’t want to fall.

He drags himself into Aldo’s bed, shuts his eyes and hopes Aldo won’t care. He inhales. Aldo’s pillow still smells of the cheap bottle of cologne the two of them stole, then broke trying to open.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossposted from [my writing blog](http://theplatypusquacks.tumblr.com/post/56483693081/by-halves-3-6).

“Marco! Wake up! It’s time for dinner.”

Marco groans as he blinks the sleep from his eyes. Judging by the sun, he’s been out for the whole afternoon, but he doesn’t feel any less tired. His eyepatch digs uncomfortably into his skin, and Marco supposes he’ll have to sleep with it off in the future. He runs a hand through his hair to tame it and moves towards the stairs. Pressing his hand against the wall, he takes one slow step down at a time, his eyes glued to his feet.

“Marco! You’re back; I can’t believe it! My little brother the hero,” Aldo cries and throws a heavy arm around Marco. Whatever he meant to say next never gets said as he gropes blindly for something that isn’t there.

Aldo lets go, less exuberant and a little cowed. “We couldn’t stop talking about it in the factories, you know. It’s the first time we’ve ever taken land back from those titan bastards, and I can’t believe my little brother made it happen.”

“Y-yeah,” Marco says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s pretty amazing.”

As they turn into the kitchen, Isabella drops the plates she was holding. She locks eyes with his, and Marco sees the shock flicker across her face, but she hurries to wrap her arms tight around him.

“I’ve missed you so much, Marco.” Giving him one last squeeze, she takes a step back, frowns and pinches his cheek between her thumb and index finger. “What have they been feeding you? Don’t worry; mother’s cooked a big dinner to fatten you right back up.”

Marco can smell it, buttery potatoes and well-done meat, and wonders vaguely how much it all cost to make.

“Isabella, stop bothering your brother and finish setting the table.”

“Yes, father!” She says, walking away. His father shoulders past her and stops a few feet in front of Marco. His gaze is heavy, and Marco feels uncomfortable bearing its weight.

“It’s good to have you home,” he says finally.

He looks like someone tried to rub away the wrinkles around his eyes with sandpaper. The strong set of his jaw, Marco’s jaw, hasn’t changed. His mother always said he took so much from his father, she wondered why he spent nine months inside her. He never noticed the resemblance before, but he does now.

“You too, father.” The words, though forced, are genuine.

“Watch out, pot roast coming through! It’s very hot.”

“Oh, it looks amazing!”

“Careful, Francesco, you’ll hurt yourself. Give me that carving knife. I thought I told Aldo to fetch it.”

“Sorry, I went to go fetch Marco instead.”

“Why can’t you be more like your sister?” She complains as she cuts the first slice. “What did I ever do to deserve three sons and two daughters instead of three daughters and two sons?”

“Mom,” Aldo says, spooning vegetables out onto the plates.

“There, a double serving for Marco.” She slides the plate toward his usual place at the table.

“I want extra potatoes!”

“Wait until you’ve finished the rest of your plate before getting more, young lady. I don’t want you wasting food.”

Marco decides to help pass out the silverware, but Francesco nudges him aside.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Mom said to let you take it easy and stuff, so you can sit down first.”

“Oh,” Marco says. “Alright then.”

Except it isn’t: watching the hustle bustle of the kitchen and not joining in. Fortunately, they’re done soon enough, settled in their seats, and Marco picks up a knife to cut the beef into smaller pieces only to find he can’t.

“Have you heard about that titan? They’re saying there was this strange one that actually helped plug the breach.”

Marco tries, but he can’t pin it in place a fork to give him more traction, and the meat slips straight into his potatoes. Frustrated, he scrapes it back into place and tries again, but presses too hard and nearly flips his plate.

“Here, let me take care of that for you.”

“Sorry,” Marco says, sheepish and embarrassed, holding out his plate and hoping no one sees the tremor. “It’s-”

“Not a problem,” his mother replies, taking it from him. “Just give me a moment.”

“Are you really going to believe something as ridiculous as that? It’s completely crazy. Whoever spread that rumor must be out of their mind.”

“How else are you supposed to explain how they plugged up a gate with that big rock so fast? There’s no way they could’ve transported it so quickly with wagons and horses.”

She passes it back, and the pot roast is cut into bite size pieces. It takes a moment before Marco picks up his fork and stabs one. The center is pinkish, kept carefully raw to keep the meat tender, and as Marco lifts it to his mouth, he spots the tiniest fleck of blood. Juice drips from the meat, a droplet hitting him on the thigh, warm as blood splattering across his face.

“Wasn’t Marco there? Why don’t we ask him? Hey, Marco,” Aldo says, poking him under the table with his foot. “Do you know anything about what happened at Trost?”

Marco jolts at the touch, fork clattering to the table, and he realizes everyone is staring at him.

“Oh, I, um.” His throat feels tight; something is crushing his chest so his lungs can’t pull in air.

“I-” His vision goes dark at the edges, and the room is shrinking; the hair on the back of his neck prickles, like if he’d turn around he’d see a titan right there.

“I need some fresh air,” he blurts. He runs for the door, exhaling when the night air hits his face, runs down the street and forgets to close the door behind him.

He stops at the well, hunched over and breath heavy like he’s making up for all the air he couldn’t breathe. When he starts to feel better, he sits down, back against the bricks with his limbs sprawled carelessly. His head hits the bricks with a thud and he wonders why this is so hard.

“Looks like I’ve found you.”

It’s Isabella. She has a smile on her face, a small one, and she gathers her skirts when she sits down next to him.

“I don’t think you ever won a single game of hide and seek with me.”

“That’s because you’re four years older than me.”

She laughs. “I guess you’re right.” She tilts her head up to look at the stars. “It wasn’t very fair of me, was it? I already knew all the good hiding places.” There’s silence, not comfortable or uncomfortable, until Marco speaks again.

“I thought you would’ve been married by now.”

“To Zachary?” A breeze blows her bangs into her face, so she tucks them behind her ear. Isabella sighs. “It’s difficult. His family likes me; mom and dad like him. He works so hard, and he’d be a wonderful father.” She rubs her stomach.

“Wait, are you-”

“Oh no. No, no I’m not. I don’t know what I’d, what we’d do if I were. We’re both from big families, so we wanted to move into a new home before marrying, except land is so expensive. He’s hoping to pick up some extra work when they open Trost up for renovation.”

They fall silent again, and Marco remembers playing with Aldo in the fields, staying out even after the sun set. They’d sneak out bread so they wouldn’t get hungry, and once the stars came out, Aldo would point at them and tell him stories they both already knew. Stories about heroes and the monsters they slayed, and how the heavens, marveling at their bravery, plucked them from the earth to live forever in a nobler place: the sky.

“You had me going there for a second.”

“I could’ve probably said that better. I would like kids though, someday. You’d be such a great uncle for them. I think you had more patience with Francesco and Maria than I did sometimes.” She stands up and smooths out her skirts.

“I’m going to head back, alright? I’ll tell them not to worry and save you a plate before Aldo eats it all.” She places a hand on his right shoulder, hesitant but firm, and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Her touch is warm. “You take as long as you need, but try not to stay out too late.”

“Thanks, Isabella.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll find a way to get you to pay me back later,” she says with a wink. “That’s what big sisters are for.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossposted from [my writing blog](http://theplatypusquacks.tumblr.com/post/58019208722/by-halves-4-6).

By the time Marco returns, the house is dark. There’s no one in the kitchen, but he sees an untouched plate of food. The sight of it makes him smile, but he moves towards his parents’ room instead of the kitchen. He should apologize first.

“What are we supposed to do?” Marco stops before their door. That’s his father’s voice.

“What do you mean?”

“With Marco. What are we supposed to do with him? I just don’t know.”

“Isn’t it too soon? We should let him rest for a while first.”

“And that what about after? You saw him at dinner today. He can’t even feed himself. Isabella said he needed a moment, but he still hasn’t even come home.”

“These things take time, dear. We’re lucky to have gotten him back at all. I heard the Humberts down the street just received a letter today saying their daughter is missing.”

“So? What is he supposed to do now, even if he’s alive? The factories won’t take him; no one’s going to hire a farm hand with one hand. He can’t be apprenticed anywhere the way he is, and he can’t work as a clerk because the hand he lost was his writing hand. And what about after we’re dead or we’re too old? No parent’s going to let their child marry a boy without work.”

“You’re being too hasty. He has a pen-”

“A pension? It’s still less than the wages he would’ve gotten if he had a proper job. I told you. I told you he should’ve just gotten a regular job and avoided anything that even related to the government, but no, you said children need to pursue their dreams!”

“We already have Aldo following in your footsteps. Even Isabella’s working! Who would it have hurt? Who? It’s not like he wanted to join the Scouting Legion! Even if he didn’t make the top ten, he would’ve joined the Garrison and-”

“And didn’t you see what happened five years ago? How many people in the Garrison died? How many of them died just now? Five years ago it was the Smiths, now it’s the Humberts and it could’ve been us too! You just wanted the chance to live inside the inner wa-”

“How dare you! How could you? I would never-”

Marco stumbles backwards, head spinning and appetite gone. He wants to vomit; he wants to disappear. He doesn’t want to be another mouth to feed. It’s a struggle to even get to the stairs, much less climb them, but he does.

He manages to get the door to his room open, glances at his bunk and gives up right there. He’s sleeping on the floor tonight. Reaching up, he grabs his pillow and tugs the blanket loose. He curls up at the foot of the bed, setting the pillow against the wood, and falls into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, he wakes to find the room empty. Marco takes his time washing his face in the basin. The sight of his eye still shocks him, but he's struck more now by how dark the skin is under his eye, how hollow his cheeks look. He looks exhausted and dead and feels it too. After he pats his face dry, he picks up his eye patch and tries again.

When he comes down the stairs, the house is empty, but he finds his mother in the kitchen mending clothing.

"Mom?"

"Marco? Are you up now? Did you have a good night's sleep?"

"I did," Marco says, "it was nice sleeping in my old bed again."

"That's good to hear. I made sure to wash your sheets before you came home. There’s some bread and cheese in the kitchen in case you were hungry. You missed breakfast, but I didn’t want to wake you."

"Is there anything you need me to do?"

"I don't think so," she says, looking up and rubbing at her eye with a knuckle. "You take it easy, alright sweetheart? If I think of anything I need help with, I’ll tell you."

“Alright,” he replies, because there’s nothing he can do. He finds himself back in his room again, alone and face to face with the ladder again. There’s a crick in his neck from sleeping on the floor, and Marco knows he can’t do this forever. He’s lucky his brothers didn’t tell. Mouth and jaw set, he grabs the rail and tries one more time.

The first two steps are easy, but the moment he gets his foot on the third rung he feels it again: the nausea pooling in his stomach. His throat tightens, but he forces himself to breathe despite it. He won’t fall. They cut his lines during training, and he didn’t fall. He takes a fourth step.

He won’t fall, he tells himself as he lets go, and he doesn’t. Instead, he climbs another step higher.

He won’t fall, he thinks as he takes another, and the wood beneath his palm feels almost as grounding as the pull of the 3-dimensional maneuver gear at his waist. Hauling himself onto the bed, it feels almost like he still has it grasped within his hand.

It isn’t a feeling that lasts, however. He wakes up that night from a nightmare, sitting up so fast he hits his head on the ceiling. His skin is damp, sticky with sweat and titan spit. His stump throbs nearly as much as his head, and he digs the heel of his palm into his temple to get the pressure to go away.

"Go to sleep," Aldo mumbles. "Got," he yawns while rolling onto his side, "work in the morning."

"Sorry," Marco says, counting the cracks in the ceiling until dawn.

*

The next few days blur in a haze of inactivity as Marco spends them in his bed, in the house. He spent the first few on the streets too, but there was an awkward quiet that followed him where he went. He felt like a scar, like a pebble that dropped into the pond and scattered ripples across the surface, but when the water calmed again, the pond was black. He doesn’t like the unfamiliar quiet, so he stays home, where it’s broken by his mother’s tuneless humming and his younger siblings’ intermittent squawks.

He lolls his head to the side, and the sunlight hits him dead in the face. He puffs out a sigh and drags himself out of bed and down the ladder. As he descends the stairs, he wonders why he bothers, bothered. The wood grains blur together, and maybe he should’ve paid better attention or maybe he should’ve cared more, but he tumbles down the stairs and lands in heap.

“Marco, are you alright? Are you okay?" His mother pulls him upright. "I think we should move your things downstairs. After all, it must be dangerous for you to be walking around the way you are. I’m not sure where we could put it, but I think we could fix something-”

“Stop! Stop it; I don’t want,” Marco shoves her away, moves away from her until his back hits the wall. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t want-”

“I’ve seen it; I’ve heard it. You and father don’t-”

Marco’s throat clamps shut. He didn’t mean to say that. They weren’t supposed to know.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean. I wasn’t supposed to. You weren’t.”

His mother hasn’t moved, is still kneeling there with her hands stretched out like she’s still touching her son only he’s not there anymore. She’s silent because Marco has never yelled at her, has never screamed at her. It was always Aldo who threw the loudest tantrums and argued most, not Marco. She stands, hands now fisted in her apron.

“Maria. Come out; I know you’re there.”

Maria peeks out from behind her bedroom door. “Mom?”

“Take Francesco and go outside and play. Don’t go too far away and make sure you’re home in time for supper.” When Maria doesn’t move, she exhales sharply through her nose. “Maria.”

“O-okay,” Maria mumbles. She scuttles out of the house with her shoulders hunched like the tension is crushing her, dragging Francesco by the hand behind her. He peeks over his shoulder at Marco before Maria shuts the door.

With only them left, the grim set of her face softens. She reaches out a hand to Marco, which he takes after a moment, and pulls him upright.

“Let’s,” she says. “Let’s talk about this in the kitchen.”

She opens a cabinet to bring out the porcelain tea set they reserve for special occasions. There’s a rose motif painted on the sides and gold leaf pressed against the rim of the cups and the edge of the saucers. He remembers confusedly promising his father his mother smile would be a better present for Sina’s Day than a new toy. He remembers his mother holding a cup up, gold glinting and porcelain almost translucent in the candlelight. One of them is gone now, shattered when Marco chased Maria into the kitchen and she knocked it to the floor.

His mother sets the pot and two cups on the table. Steam wafts from the spout, and it smells like chamomile. She pours out the tea and stirs in two spoonfuls of honey into Marco’s cup, because Marco used to sneak sticky fingerfuls of honey into his mouth all the time when he was younger. Now that he thinks about it, his mother probably always knew. When he takes a sip, there’s the faintest touch of lavender.

“How much did you hear?” His mother takes hers plain.

Marco takes another sip before answering. “Until the yelling.”

She shuts her eyes. “I see.”

There’s a weight on his tongue, a lump in his throat. “Was it true?”

“Maybe he was,” his mother confesses, and the weight drops into Marco’s gut. “Maybe I did hope you’d join the military police. Maybe I did hope we could live in the inner city. Does it matter anymore though?” she sighs out all the air in her, deflates in a way that makes her skin sink closer to her bones, makes her wrinkles deepen.

He thinks of his father words. “I’m sorry.”

“No. No, don’t be sorry,” she says, crushing Marco against her. Her hands dig into his scalp as she presses his face into her shoulder. “Please don’t be sorry. I was wrong. I should be sorry. I can’t hold you in my lap anymore, but you’ll always be my son. You’ll always be worth more to me than any title. You being here alive is the greatest gift you could give me.” She pulls away to grasp his face between her hands. “Please don’t be sorry.”

Marco feels horribly empty when she kisses him on the forehead. He feels like he should cry or say something, but his tongue is swollen and his mouth feels dry no matter how much tea he drinks. Even if he could find the words he wants, he wouldn’t be able to say them.

“I need to cook now,” his mother says, pulling away. “Would you like to help me?”

It’s strange to see her shyly hopeful, strange to see her human, but her offer sounds like a truer apology than anything else she could’ve said. It doesn’t clear the mess in Marco’s head or help him find what he wants to say, but it loosens the lump in his throat.

“What do you want me to do?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Jean finally makes a reappearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha wow i am so sorry it should definitely not take me so long to update next time. originally posted on [my writing blog](http://theplatypusquacks.tumblr.com/post/69708024020/by-halves-5).

“Mom, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Because,” she says as Marco barrels down the stairs, “you’re sixteen now it’s not my-”

“None of the bread is going to be fresh now!”

“And whose fault is that?” She doesn’t bother looking up from her embroidery. His father came home from the factories with a soot stain Isabella couldn’t wash out in the corner of his handkerchief, so his mother took to sewing a flower border to hide it. “Go apologize to Isabella if you can’t find her favorite pastry.”

“Mom,” Marco says, stopping in the middle of slipping his shoes.

“Marco,” she replies.

He strides into the kitchen. “Where’d you put the basket?”

“It should be where it always is. Are you scuffing my floorboards?”

“No, Mom.” Marco is tempted to dig his heel into the wood when he opens the cabinets and still can’t find it, but chooses to say, “it’s not there!”

“Are you sure you didn’t leave it somewhere else?”

“Nevermind, I found it.” Marco slips its handle into the crook of his elbow and tugs at his eyepatch to make sure it covers his eye, even though he could feel it already did. Slipping his coin pouch into his pocket, he moves to open the door. Sighing when he realizes his hand is still tucked into his pocket, he pulls it out and jostles the door open, calling, “I’ll be back in a bit!”

“Stay safe!”

Marco isn’t sure exactly what he’s supposed to stay safe from, but he says he will anyways. He missed the early morning lull when the vendors had just set up, and he thinks maybe he should wait until later, when the second batch of bread comes out, but by then the crowd would be even worse.

“Marco, you’re rather late today!”

“Good morning Mrs. Evanson,” Marco responds, leaning in to inspect the loaves she has on display. They’re not warm anymore, but if he leans in close enough he can still smell them, and he breathes it in deep.

“It’s not quite morning anymore, love. Whatever happened?”

“I just overslept a bit, that’s all. Hopefully it won’t happen again!” Marco taps on two loaves with his index finger and holds out a handful of coins. “Will this be enough for these two?” He asks, even though he knows he has exactly enough in the palm of his hand.

“Yes, yes, here you go,” she says, taking the basket from him and placing the two loaves inside. There’s a cloth inside that she uses wrap them, and she tucks in an extra fruit tart Marco never ordered.

“Ah-”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Your father was so kind to help my wife and I when our table broke last week. Now shoo.” She pats the flour from her apron. “I expect to see your face bright and early tomorrow!”

“I will! Thank you, ma’am,” Marco replies, walking away towards home, watching as the people scuttle to the side to avoid him. He sighs. He has learned his injury works well to part crowds.

Once home, he’s tempted to bash his forehead against the door because he forgets again, only the basket is full of bread now and he can’t just reach for the handle. He sets it down, opening the door and propping it open with his foot and hip as he bends back down to pick it up.

“Mom, I’m back!”

“Just in time too! There’s a boy here who came to see you. He says he’s one of your classmates.”

Marco kicks the door shut. “What are you talking about-”

Whatever he meant to say, he never did, because that’s Jean. That’s Jean who’s standing in his home. Jean, whose shoulders stiffened beneath the starched jacket of his uniform, whose gaze dropped to the ground the moment it met Marco’s, and Marco nearly drops his basket too in shock, because were those the Wings of Freedom he saw stitched onto Jean’s uniform?

“Jean?”

“I’ll leave you two alone now,” his mother says, wiping her hands dry. “Marco, I put some water on the stove to boil. You know what to do.”

“Yeah,” he says, “lemme just. Let me just put this stuff away first.”

It’s quiet when she leaves the room and when Marco sets the basket on the kitchen counter. He opens the cabinet to look for the tea set and the tin of dried peppermint. Jean moves from where he’s standing, but Marco interrupts.

“It’s okay if you sit down first.”

“Oh. Alright,” Jean says, and pulls out a chair. He rests his fists on his knees; his back is a stiff line. Marco feels a pang in his chest for being so short with him, but it’s strange to see Jean here, strange just to see Jean.

He doesn’t know what to say, but at least he knows what to do. He spoons dried peppermint leaves into the teapot, and, wrapping a cloth around the handle of the kettle, pours hot water over them until the pot is almost full. It takes him two trips and some creative stacking to bring everything over to the table, but he does and swats Jean’s hand away when Jean tries to help him set the table.

Marco’s hand shakes when he pours the tea, but nothing spills. Nothing spills, and he slides the cup across the table to Jean with the handle pointed to the right, because Jean is right handed. He wraps his palm around his cup, letting the heat seep into him like it would somehow make the silence less uncomfortable. Marco speaks first.

“So you joined the Scouting Legion?”

Marco watches as Jean’s fingers jerk against the porcelain. “Y-yeah,” he says. “I did.”

“Why?” Marco asks, taking a sip.

Jean looks up now, though not into Marco’s eyes. He misses, just a foot shy, below, a little to the left.

“I just realized it wasn’t safe. It’s not safe, you know? It’s not safe anywhere, not even behind Sina.”  

“I see,” Marco says gently, rubbing his fingertip along the rim of the cup. Gently, because blunt though he may be, sometimes even Jean needs help from quiet.

"I didn't want to. You weren't there for it, but there was a bonfire for all the bodies, right?" Jean's eyes slip to his pale green reflection in the teacup. "They didn't even get, I mean most people don't get graves because there isn't enough space and land isn’t cheap, but they didn't. They didn't even get their own pyre."

“Did, did anyone else-?”

“Yeah,” Jean replies, so quick he nearly cuts off Marco. “I wasn’t the only one who joined. Jaeger did, even after his entire fucking squad got eaten-”

“So did you.”

At Jean’s stare, Marco adds, “After Trost, I mean. You both joined, even after what happened at Trost.”

“I guess we did, huh.”

Marco allows himself a smile. “You did.”

“I don't even know why I did. I don't know why anyone did after-" Jean's lips thin. "Sometimes I can't sleep because I can't believe I'm here. It's stupid.”

“It’s not. At least I wouldn’t think so, anyways.” Marco’s been stuck doing soul searching too. There isn't much work in Jinae for a one armed man who can barely write his name in a straight line.

"What about you? How have you been?"

"I've been," Marco says, "alright, I guess. Jinae's not the most exciting place. It's nice to be at home again. I missed my siblings. My mom's cooking. "

"Yeah, you talked about them when we-" The porcelain clatters from where Jean let it go, fingers suddenly stiff. "When were cadets," he finishes.

"Yeah." Something is lodged in Marco's throat, something hard that makes it hard to talk and his eyes water. Less than three months ago, Marco was making plans for moving into the Inner City, figuring out how to bring his family with him. The sentiment feels both very strange and very familiar.

"You know, I should go," Jean says, standing up. His tea is unfinished. "I've got. Stuff to do."

"Right," Marco says, rising to see Jean out the door. "Sorry, I shouldn't have kept you so long."

"Nah, it's fine. We're just going over some things, plans and stuff, since we have an expedition coming up.”

“Ah," Marco says. "An expedition?”

Jean adjusts his collar, the way his uniform sits on his shoulders. He doesn’t notice the way Marco has frozen where he stood. “Yeah, we’re going to be heading out in a week, through the Karanese District." He pauses. "It'll be in the morning. If you wanted to, I dunno, see us. Off."

Jean is bent forward slightly, forearm braced against the wall with his thumb tucked underneath a thigh strap. His hand trembles as he runs it under to make sure it lay flat.

"Karanese is a bit far," Marco says at last.

"Right. It is. Isn't it?" He straightens his back, fingernails scraping against his scalp, where he’d shaved his hair. “It is pretty far. I should’ve. Anyways, I’m gonna head out.”

“Wait, Jean.”

Marco claps his hand to Jean’s shoulder, and Jean jolts at his touch. Marco swallows. “Stay safe out there, okay? Be careful.”

Jean twists his head around to look at him when he replies. “Yeah, I will.” He curls his fingers loosely around Marco’s wrist, fingertips warm where they touched his skin. “Of course I will.”

“Come back safe,” Marco says, withdrawing his hand.

“Yeah, I will,” Jean says again, face a little softer, a little more familiar. “Thanks, Marco.” He twists the doorknob and is out the door.

Marco waves as he goes, doesn’t close the door until he can’t see Jean anymore. He shuts it with a click, back hitting the door with his thumb and index finger pressed against his eyes. When he presses his palm against his mouth, they feel damp. He takes a breath, and it rattles his chest the whole time he drags it into his lungs, shakes him by the shoulders when he lets it go.

He’s crying. He closes his eyes. Marco has slept more this past month than he ever did when he was swaddled as a baby. There's really no reason for him to want sleep, but he does.


End file.
